A valiant attempt to resuscitate a production line that ground to a shuddering halt a long time ago, but Bond should be left well alone

JAMES Bond creator Ian Fleming said an author’s sole purpose “was to make the reader turn the page”, according to his niece Lucy Fleming.

Certainly Fleming himself had the knack. His Bond books have sold more than 100 million copies. William Boyd is no slouch either.

His own literary efforts are particularly impressive, garnering him commercial success, critical acclaim and awards aplenty.

Thus the prospect of Boyd writing the latest Bond novel should surely be a matter of slobbering attack-dog salivation in anticipation of a magnificent read of finest filet mignon proportions.

What a shame then that the promised feast fails to satisfy. No sooner is the last page turned than the desire for something more substantial to savour is clawing at the stomach as well as the mind.

Boyd was chosen to pilot the latest instalment of the Bond novel franchise after his own spying series, which kicked off with Restless, proved a hit. Encouraged by his father to read Fleming, Boyd is an aficionado.

As a result this was billed as a return to the “classic Bond”.

It is set in 1969 and opens with Bond celebrating his 45th birthday alone amid the splendour of the Dorchester Hotel.

From then, Boyd takes him on a safari to the author’s old stomping ground of west Africa where Bond, posing as a journalist, is tasked with ending the civil war in Zanzarim, a former (German, then French) British colony.

Quite precisely why or how is never really explained by M, or Boyd for that matter.

What follows sees Bond ingratiate himself with the leadership of the rebellious Fakassa tribe by demonstrating his Second World War-honed military skills. The war ends but only in part because of Bond.

As the rats leave the sinking ship (those who can afford to buy themselves a seat on the last planes departing the doomed state), Bond is suddenly prevented from boarding the final aircraft, betrayed and then shot in seemingly life-ending circumstances.

Only this being the Bond franchise, not to mention only halfway through the novel, there is no doubt our protagonist will survive.

Sure enough we next find him recovering in a military medical unit in Scotland where M explains how Bond narrowly missed cashing in his chips without even so much as a roulette wheel on the horizon.

Aggrieved, Bond ignores M’s advice to take a holiday and recuperate and instead embarks upon a solo mission, from whence the book’s title comes, to extract revenge from those who betrayed and tried to murder him.

Solo is a valiant attempt to resuscitate a production line that ground to a shuddering halt a long time ago.

His pursuit of those responsible takes him, via the bed of a B-movie actress, to Washington DC where he finally confronts the villains in a showdown.

Boyd’s pastiche is a faithful one to Fleming’s original creation.

Bond is a man of great appetites: drink, women, work, more drink and fine dining, and the period is recreated in authentic detail.

However, film fans be warned: there is not a single Aston Martin. Bond drives a Bentley and is considering a Jensen Interceptor.

In truth, it is far superior to the last effort to breathe life into a Bond novel by Jeffrey Deaver.

Nevertheless it remains a lame affair. At its strongest when Bond is stumbling around Africa, this is anaemic stuff.

Even the customary Bond villain, a disfigured Rhodesian mercenary with a penchant for stringing up his victims from the nearest convenient gibbet, seems a colourless character in comparison with factual and fictional counterparts.

In a world of shopping mall massacres, suicide bombers and chemical weapon attacks, authors have to work harder to win their audiences, even when they plot their novels in the late Sixties.

Solo is a valiant attempt to resuscitate a production line that ground to a shuddering halt a long time ago.

The executors of the Fleming estate do James Bond’s creator no favours by continuing to flog his original concept till all that remains is the shredded remnants.

If you want to read modern espionage or thrillers there are shelves of them in all reputable bookshops.

If you want Fleming’s Bond read the originals. If you want the Hollywood version then join an on-line movie site.

Despite the marketing ballyhoo the last thing you should do is buy this synthetic substitute which only serves to bring both Bond and Boyd into disrepute.